72 The Meadow say there are hidden bunkers built into the mountains, where the government hides nuclear weapons and other end-of-theworld caches. I, for one, hope that the mountains’ secrets aren’t anything so prosaic. Usually the holds slow down over the weekend, but not today. Now I’m thinking about prayer and the people coming to pick up these books. What do Kelly Carrillo, John Gold, Donna Gainsway, and Eliseo Guzman pray about? What would they do differently if they were related to my sister? Lupita is avoiding me, which is fine. The morning passes in a blur of names and paper slips and missed prayers. Before I know it, it’s lunchtime. “Lord,” Sheila, a brash, middle-aged clerk, says, bursting into the break room. “We’ve got a nut bucket out there, ranting and raving. Katherine’s on the phone with the police.” We’re obviously no strangers to unwell community members. There was a domestic abuse situation a few months ago where a woman ran into the circulation room and barricaded herself inside while her husband railed at the door. Another time, a man put a bag of piss-soaked DVDs in the book drop and the poor clerk who found it still wears elbow-length rubber gloves whenever she has to check in returned items. I sit at a table in the corner, my back to the door, with a bag of pretzels in one hand an old copy of People in the other. There’s a picture of some HGTV host and her kid, a strawberry blond girl with a goofy grin, one of her two front teeth missing. The first time I lost a tooth, Brigid asked to see it. With reluctance, I handed over the still bloodied pearl. She pretended to pop it into her mouth and I chased her around the room, grasping for it. She held up her hands in surrender, and then placed the tooth on her outstretched palm. Brigid stared at it for a long time. Arlo, our Jack Russell, raced into the room, barking. I stooped to pet him. When I looked back at Brigid, there was nothing in her open palm and her nose was bleeding.
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